


The Heart Rate of a Mouse: Extras

by Anna (arctic_grey)



Series: The Heart Rate of a Mouse [8]
Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctic_grey/pseuds/Anna
Summary: All THROAM ficlets, cameos, etc. reposted from LJ.





	1. Pete’s cameo: “Let’s get the hell out of Texas.”

**Author's Note:**

> All THROAM ficlets, cameos, etc. reposted from LJ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend reading chapter Vol.1: II – 4 before reading this. It will be confusing otherwise!

**Vol.1: II - set at the end of Ch.3  
**   


I’ve been giving it some thought all day, ever since Ryan and Spencer assured me that they were only planning their birthdays in one of the venue’s conference rooms. Yeah, right. Not to say I won’t organise their joint birthday party because that sounds groovy beyond belief, but point is that Ryan has not celebrated his birthdays since he was twelve. Spencer told me that once.

What kind of a kid loses interest in life at the age of twelve? The ones destined for something greater, it seems. Those few individuals who are larger than life.

The gear is on the bus and we’re ready to go, but I pull Brendon aside now that I’ve decided what needs to be done. He follows me off the bus, Ryan’s eyes following us as we leave.

It’s almost dark outside, a bit after midnight, and I make sure we’re a safe distance away from the bus. Don’t need anyone else to hear us.

Brendon looks wondering, clearly waiting for an order. The humid wind ruffles his hair, and I can just see the way the lights glowing from the bus catch the backstage pass hanging around his neck. He’s an extremely good-looking man. If he was straight, the girls would be all over him. God, if he were straight, I could sell him like _that_. I’ve heard him singing and playing, and the kid’s fucking talented. It’s his loss he’s hit his head and decided to sleep with other men, efficiently ruining any chances he might ever have in the industry.

It’s a tragic waste of talent, but clearly Brendon’s found other ways to move up. He’s lured one of the most handsome and charismatic men I know into his trap.

Ryan’s not your Robert Plant on stage, but he doesn’t have to scream, throw down the microphone stand and sink down to his knees to get the crowd’s absolutely undivided attention. He gets on that stage, strums a chord and starts singing, and even though there are ten thousand people watching him, it always feels like he’s singing to you and no one else. It’s not just some song he’s launching into, but he’s whispering his most personal secret into your ear, and it sends shivers down your spine. And that is charisma – his mesmerising personality that he is clueless to having.

I’m not all that shocked that Ryan is sleeping with Brendon. From my experience, Ryan will fuck anything he is attracted to, and Ryan will definitely do anything that pops into his head. I’m definitely pissed off that they’ve been going at it behind my back, but I don’t need to deal with Ryan’s sudden explorations the way Spencer is apparently struggling to do. Spencer’s been off his game all day and played a shit show.

But what I need to do is take repercussions, micromanage my band’s needs and have them clueless to how everything they say, do, eat and drink has been dictated by me.

Brendon quirks an eyebrow at me, still waiting.

“So you’re fucking Ryan.”

“What?” he asks sharply, instantly freezing up.

“You’re fucking him,” I state, and he tries to laugh and look confused. I roll my eyes. “Don’t try that bullshit with me.” I am sick and tired of everyone on that damn bus thinking they can fool me, for having no damn respect for me. They need me more than they know. They owe me everything. “Nothing gets past me, especially not something like this.”

“You’re insane! That’s –”

“ _Brendon._ ”

The faux astonishment on his face fades, eyes filling with uncertainty. He shifts uncomfortably. “Did Spencer tell you?”

“No.” Maybe I overheard Spencer and Ryan talking, my ear pressed to the door, but I’m not admitting to that. I clearly knew, noticed the signs in the air because that’s how smart I am. I didn’t go to college for nothing, you know. Brendon looks unnerved, so I give him a smile. “Relax! I’m not going to tell anyone. My job is to make sure that the product called The Followers can be sold, and that includes them not splitting up as well as an all heterosexual cast.”

Brendon frowns. “You mean... Wait. You want me to end it?”

“No! No, not at all!” I laugh, digging into my pockets. “Smoke?” I offer him one, and he takes it. I bring my own to my lips, lighting it up and inhaling deep. “Hmm,” I nod approvingly, focusing on the matter at hand. “I want you to not fuck it up. Right now, you’re what’s keeping Ryan happy. If my front man is happy, then I’m happy. If my front man’s pissed, then I’m pissed. You on the same page with me here?” I ask, and he nods. “Good. If tomorrow Ryan is not happy, then I will hold you personally responsible.”

He looks astonished. “I can’t keep him happy all the time.”

“Try,” I smile impatiently. Am I not making myself clear here? I’ll break it down for him. “Ryan’s thirsty, you stand there with a drink ready. Ryan’s got an itch, you scratch it.”

The roadie glares at me. “I’m not some slave! I’m not going to bend over backwards trying to please him!”

“Don’t you already bend over for him, anyway?” I note, causing anger to flash on his face. Well, it’s what a fag like him does.

It’s sweet that Brendon thinks Ryan wants honesty from him. What Ryan wants is for everyone to do what he says and for everything to go as he plans it. He’s flaky, that man. Brendon could easily fall from grace if he rubs Ryan the wrong way, and then Brendon will be no use to me.

Brendon sucks on his cigarette nervously. “Look, I get where you’re coming from, but I’m not the solution. I’m sleeping with him, yeah, but –”

“Ryan’s a man who needs addictions to keep himself sane. May it be drugs, alcohol, music, his misery…” I pause. “Right now, you’re it. And that means you’ve got power over him. You might not realise that, but I do.”

When has Ryan ever kept a fuck buddy around? Apart from Brendon and Jac, never. The roadie probably doesn’t understand that he’s goddamn rare. I don’t care if Ryan fucks a man if it keeps him on track. Ryan can marry a donkey and bring it on tour with him as long as no one knows and the band keeps getting bigger.

“This is ridiculous,” Brendon objects. I’ve offended him. Tough luck.

“It’s about to get even more ridiculous,” I tell him, because bribery and blackmail are the basic tools of any manager. “At the end of the tour, I’ll give you a three hundred dollar bonus.” Brendon’s eyes widen slightly. “Yeah, no shit,” I agree. I could think of a million better ways to spend that money, and I feel pain in my guts at the thought of parting with it, but it’ll pay itself back. “Three hundred bucks to keep him happy and appease him because we both know he’s a moody little fucker. I love him dearly, of course, and this is how far I’m willing to go to make him want to be on this tour.”

“Fuck,” Brendon manages, somewhere between shock, anger and disbelief.

“So, can I count on you?” I push, and when he looks angered, I add, “You want him to be happy, right? You’re getting paid to do what you want to do, anyway. Who knows, you being there for him like that could make him develop some feelings for you.”

My god. Where do I come up with this crap? Ryan lives in his head too much to notice those who surround him. Sure, Brendon stands out right now, but the effect will wear off and he will fade back into the blurred scenery. That’s not what Brendon wants to hear, though. What he wants is for someone to tell him that Ryan will return his feelings. Brendon wouldn’t be angry if he wasn’t falling in love.

I’ve always thought that it takes a certain suicidal trait to let yourself fall in love with Ryan Ross.

Brendon frowns, even if I see a momentary glint of hope in his eyes. A doomed love right there. He notes, “I thought you wanted an all heterosexual cast.”

“I do. That doesn’t mean Ryan can’t keep skeletons and lovers in his closet.”

He shakes his head and mutters, “This isn’t right.”

Count me as someone who doesn’t care.

“Are you doing it?”

He swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. I just wanted to say that.”

“Noted,” I grin and give his shoulder a squeeze. “Good boy.”

He glares at me, but I finish my cigarette peacefully before dropping it to the ground. I roll my shoulders, smiling.

I’m back to holding all the strings. Fuck me if that doesn’t feel good.

“Come on,” I tell him, nodding at our beautiful, perfect bus. “Let’s get the hell out of Texas.”


	2. Pete’s cameo: “Let’s get the hell out of Texas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Brendon’s cameo, so to speak. Pete had one in Vol.1, and this time we get to see some of Brendon’s thoughts. This is set in the beginning of Vol.2’s II, somewhere around II – Chapter 1/2. This is unbetaed so mistakes are my own. Please make sure you've read [Chapter 7](http://beggarsnotes.livejournal.com/75124.html) first, however.

I can’t stop.

Not sure if I’d want to.

The subway is loud and shaking and tired as a few bored and lifeless people fill it. Crossing the river. From Manhattan to Brooklyn. From him to him.

I feel Ryan in me. I didn’t shower. I should have. When I get home, I’ll say hi and instantly go wash myself off. Maybe jerk off in the shower. Finger myself. The memories are still so fresh on my mind, his touch and his hands, the dirty fucking things he says, and I’m so lost in it. No idea where the way out is anymore. Sometimes it’s all I can think of: when will I see him again? How soon? It’s hard to keep my guard up.

Heard someone talking about him the other day. Two guys around my age asking each other if they knew when the new Ryan Ross album was coming out. Whenever I see him, it’s a different world. He doesn’t get that, I don’t think. There’s us, the real people, and then there’s him, untouchable, free to do what he pleases. Without conscience.

I’m not a demigod. I’m human.

Shane. He’s human. He’s… Fuck, he’s the kindest man I know. He loves me. He loves me, he loves me, I know he does. ~~What am I doing, oh god, what the hell am I –~~ He’s not perfect, no one is, but he’s a good man. And I’d die if he ever found out. And knowing that, I still… do these stupid things. Take unnecessary risks. For Ryan.

The excitement is addictive. The thrill of sneaking around and getting away with it. And the lies I tell feel worth it when my lips meet his. Like it justifies it somehow.

It’s not their fault. It’s mine. I’m the fuck up.

Well, Ryan’s certainly a fuck up too. But this isn’t his doing.

He doesn’t talk to me about Keltie. Not that I ever bring her up, but sometimes I’d want to ask: do you feel guilty? Probably not. Guilt is an emotion much too human for Ryan. And when he fucks me, when he kisses me, he does it like there’s no one else. No, he doesn’t bother with guilt much.

I’m not like him. I carry my guilt in my own quiet way. It’s a balancing act: guilt versus pleasure. And pleasure wins. Every time.

The subway rattles. I want to laugh into my hands. My eyes land on the priest sitting opposite me, his white collar. Tell him my confession: I never got over him. That’s what it is. That’s what’s wrong with me. Even after what he did, even after all that time… even after Shane and how badly I fell in love with him, Ryan never slipped my mind. I was stitching up the wounds. I was too. But then he showed up and pulled the stitches right off, crawled back inside, back into me. The way he makes me feel… No one else can make me feel like that. No one ever has. My pulse picks up just thinking about him.

That armchair in his living room with its back to the window, but I was facing the view. Him sitting there, me on his lap, riding him slow but hard. His hands on my hips. Nails digging in. Sweat rolling down my back. Saw the ceiling, the ceiling, the building opposite, so out of it, body shaking in pleasure, breathing in his hair, our bodies as close as we could get them. His lips on my chest, his tongue grazing over a nipple, him pulling me down for a kiss. Love the way he touches me. Love the way he pulls me to him. 

I can’t stop, so I try not to think about it. The guilt. What it’d do to Shane if he knew. Or if anyone knew. If Ian knew or William knew or… And William, well, he wouldn’t spare his words. He’d tell me instantly that I should be ashamed of myself, frolicking around with that no good rock star who treated me like crap. And especially after everything Shane has done for me, everything he's put up with. Am I ashamed? I don’t know. I was angry with Ryan for so long, and I haven’t forgotten, certainly not, but…

It always feels so right when I’m with him. The way we kiss and the way we laugh. The way he pouts when I have to go. Butterflies in my stomach. It wasn’t like that the last time. He wasn’t like that. Oh, William would kill me if he knew.

But then I leave, get on this subway, reeking of Ryan Ross, who lives in his rock star bubble of fame and money, and that’s when I realise that my life isn’t the one there, in his bedroom. That’s not my life. That’s a little escape from my life.

And my life is here. With Shane. In Brooklyn. It’s not so glorious. Not as intense. Not as deadly.

But then the lines have blurred, and maybe my life is in Ryan’s bedroom after all. The way he makes me feel – happy, light, wanted. He makes me feel so much. And sometimes I almost feel like he is where I belong.

But then I get on this train.

And I will keep riding it for as long as I can.


	3. If You Want to Be Common and Other Ficlets

**If You Want to Be Common, I Can Claim That I Tamed You  
Chicago, 1979**

He’s breathing unevenly, sprawled on the messy sheets of his bed. His hair is a mess and still slightly wet from the shower that we took before getting back to bed. We’re trying to recover from tour, switch back to real time. That’s what we tell ourselves, anyway, but the truth would paint a different picture if we let it. It’d say that we’ve cocooned ourselves in his house, built a fortress, retreated into a blissful bubble that is in no way connected to the real world.

So what.

Let us escape a little.

The blue sheets of his bed are wrinkled and tangled, stains on them – my come, his come, drops of sweat. I don’t care.

He’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen with his flushed skin and swollen lips. I kiss him where his ribs end, my hands on his hips as I hover over him. He whines, restless, and we’ll get there, baby, we’ll get there. This morning I let him have control, let him do what he wanted, and while it was a powerful drug, this is stronger – seeing him giving up power instead.

I lick over his taut stomach. He tastes salty – a lot of good that shower did us. I kiss next to his belly button and then nuzzle his happy trail, leading down to his pubic hair. He’s tense with anticipation, and I feel his gaze on me as I go down. I look up to meet his brown eyes. He looks mildly disbelieving. Still. We seem to do that, be awed that we wake up together, that we can finally do this without any guilt attached. That it’s so fucking good that we can’t keep our hands to ourselves at all.

I take a firm hold of the base of his cock and lick up a wet trail. And then, unceremoniously, I take him into my mouth.

“ _Shit_ ,” he breathes, and I revel in his reaction, feel myself getting so fucking hard from seeing him come undone like this. With one hand around the base, I begin to blow him. His hips thrust slightly, and he’s biting on his bottom lip watching me. I suck in the head of his cock. He tastes good, and my tongue runs over the head to taste pre-come he was leaking before I even took him in my mouth. He’s good to go, he’s so ready to be fucked, but like I said – why rush it too much?

I swirl my tongue around the crown, then suck again.

“Holy shit, Ryan,” he groans, and I take it as a sign to go back to blowing him, my lips meeting my fist as I take his length into my mouth. I’m so much better at this now, even if I do say so myself, but the way that he groans and responds to every touch, the way he can barely handle this, supports my view of me being better. I’ve got nothing but time to find out all the different things that reduce him to a whimpering mess.

I stop sucking his cock unexpectedly, leave him spiralling, wanting more. I pull back, saliva rolling down his length. The taste of his sex is in my mouth, and I fight back the urge to touch myself. Instead I place my hands on the back of his knees and push his legs up and towards his stomach, leaving him exposed. He lets me. He wants me.

My insides drip with heat when I focus my gaze on his hole. The skin is a soft pink, and he looks like he’s recently been fucked – leaving him with residue of lube and come. But I lick that away as I lean down to kiss him there, and his breathing hitches. He loves this. I love this.

I brush my tongue over his hole, wanting to drive him even more insane. And it works as his moans grow louder, and he says, “Baby, fucking hell, so good – Your _mouth_.”

And I give him just that, kissing his hole, licking over it, tasting him. His back arches, but I keep my hands firmly pressed against the backs of his knees, letting him know that he is not allowed to move as I eat him out. He breathes out half-moans, and if he wasn’t ready before, he is now. Pre-come decorates the head of his flushed cock, and I kiss my way back up, over his balls, his shaft, to gather the transparent substance with my tongue.

Still holding his knees bent over his stomach, I position myself between his legs. I grab the lube that’s on the bed – we keep it handy at all times. I have to suck in a breath when I apply some on my cock, and I’m so ready to come, fucking hell. I slick myself up and toss the lube bottle back to hide somewhere in the sheets.

And this – this moment of surrender. When he lies there, breathing erratically, flushed, waiting for me. So turned on that he can barely stand it, is barely coherent, but he lets himself fall so deep into it because he knows that he can with me. Knows that he can let go to the most burning pit of uncontrollable lust because I’ve got him, and he’s got me, and we’re allowed to go this far with each other.

I can’t resist it a second longer. I don’t need to guide my cock in – I’m hard enough for simple pressure to do the job. But I do it slow, watch his face as the head of my cock pushes him open, feel his heat engulf me, watch his mouth drop as a dirty groan slips from his swollen, perfect lips.

“That good?” I ask, and he nods fervently, back arching. He’s reaching down to touch himself, runs his fingers over his balls, up his length. Like he can’t stand how good it feels.

And then I push in until I’m buried in him, pushing his knees out of the way as I lean forwards, my cock sinking into him. He fists my hair as I lean down to kiss him, our mouths sealing in a dirty and desperate kiss. He sounds so dirty now that I’m in him, mild pain flickering beneath the pleasure as he adjusts to my size.

“Fuck, you’re so desperate for it,” I say against his lips, awed that he’s acting like he hasn’t been fucked three times the past twelve hours.

“Please,” he moans, his voice deep but needy.

“How hard do you want it?” I ask, now starting to work my hips, my cock trapped in his tight warmth. “Really hard or really fucking hard?”

It’s a rhetorical question and he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

I rest my palms on the mattress just above his shoulders, supporting myself as I begin to fuck him. I keep my eyes on him, watching him being fucked, the way his brows knit together, the way he tosses his head, the way he bites on his lips, moans, swears, looks at me with wide eyes and breathes through the pleasure. And I work my hips – hard, then pausing, going slow, going shallow, going deep again. I lift one of his legs on my shoulder, and it helps me to go in even harder. His bed shakes, he mumbles nonsense. Sweat rolls down my back, and my cock is throbbing.

I know he’s about to come because his muscles begin to seize up around my length. He has hair stuck to his forehead, and _mine_ , I think, and _mine because he lets me_.

He’s fisting his cock now, his free hand twisting the sheets. His body is full of unreleased tension, and his muscles spasm, his taut stomach looking even tauter, rippled as his muscles quiver. Microscopic drops of perspiration decorate his skin all over, and he’s looking at me straight in the eye, getting off on watching me like I’m getting off on watching him.

I lean down to kiss him again, kiss his lips, move to his neck and bite down. He likes that – I know that he does, it makes him groan. I feel his hand between our stomachs, stroking more vehemently.

“I want to come on you,” I say with the little sense I have left. Want to mark him, smear my come on him –

“Ry, holy _fuck_.” And then he grabs my hair painfully, pulling me closer, and bites onto a patch of skin just behind my ear, muffling his groan as he comes. I feel him spilling between us, his body vibrating, shaking, and his muscles grip my cock. His nose is squashed against my skin as he holds me tightly where I am, breathing unevenly as he keeps coming. It takes every ounce of control not to come but to fuck him through it.

When his death hold of my hair loosens, I rise to sit on my knees between his legs. I hastily pull out, mesmerised by the view of my flushed cock sliding out of him, his stretched hole that looks well fucked, Jesus _Christ_ –

His stomach has come splatters on it, white semen rolling over his knuckles as he holds his cock, and I fist my own dick fast and hard. He watches me with eyes full of fire, gaze dropping to my cock, and I’m so hard for him right now that I can’t.

And then I come, shooting my load on him, his stomach, his balls, his hole. And it’s the hottest fucking thing ever, and I come more than I should be able to from having come so many times already.

“God, Bren...” I breathe once I’m done, trying to catch my breath. I let go of my member and let my fingers slide on his skin instead. Gathering my come, pushing some of it into his hole. This makes him rigid, makes him seize up, makes him sigh as he comes down.

He sits up on the bed, his still parted legs by my sides. His hand slides to the back of my neck, bringing me in for a kiss. He tastes like sweat.

We breathe against each other’s mouths, lips grazing. “You’re so bad for me,” he says, and I smile into the kiss.

“How so?”

One of my hands is gently sliding up and down his side, the other is on his knee, dancing over the skin and hair.

“I’ll never be able to have sex with anyone else because you’ll spoil me.”

“You’ve figured out my plan, then,” I say, and he laughs, his nose brushing mine. My eyes dart down his body, and I feel a sense of pride from the mess that he now is. “Lie down.”

His eyes don’t leave mine as he obeys.

I get out of bed, briefly leaving the bedroom. I grab a hand towel in his bathroom, run it under hot water to wet it.

My eyes land on the toothbrush mug.

Two toothbrushes now.

Next to the mug is a tiny bar of soap: Savoy Hotel, London.

I let my fingers brush over the text, feeling myself frown.

He’s still in bed, still waiting for me. I sit on the edge and silently begin to clean him, running the towel across his stomach, then down over his pubic hair. He pulls me to lie down next to him once I’m done, throwing covers on us as I drop the towel by the bed. He snuggles right up to me, not asking, not hesitating. We entwine together, exchanging lazy kisses.

“How much time have we got?” I ask, and he shrugs like that’s inconsequential.

“Why?”

He picks up on that instantly. And I could say ‘no reason’ but he’s caught me. He’s unnervingly good at that.

“I was just thinking that. I don’t know, that maybe you could... tell me about London.”

“You were there.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

His nose brushes against mine, his fingers slowly moving on my bare arm. “No.”

“No?” I repeat in surprise. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Why should I? So that you can be jealous about it?”

“I didn’t say that,” I argue, placing a lingering kiss on his swollen lips. He tastes sweet and intoxicating.

I wouldn’t be jealous. He’s here with me. And all we do is sleep and have sex and sleep and have sex, and then we clean up, and then we realise we’re starving, and we’ve emptied the kitchen of canned tuna already, and soon we’ll have to leave his house. Soon.

I wish Brendon hadn’t picked up the phone this morning, I wish he had just let it ring. Keep the outside world away for a while longer as we sleep on each other in positions that shouldn’t be comfortable but somehow are.

“I wouldn’t be jealous about it,” I now repeat. “You said you almost slept with Dallon that night. I just want to…”

And I drift off, wait for him to respond.

He seems to consider this, but then he clears his throat. He shifts under the covers, lifts his head higher up on the pillow. “Well,” he says, a hand moving to now catch a strand of my hair, and he rolls it between his fingers as he speaks. “We went on that date, and it was – it was a really good date, and. I was upset with you. Earlier that week, that hot guy at the pub –”

“Chris.”

He makes a face at the name. “Chris. Sure.”

“You gonna be jealous about it?”

“No,” he says but it sounds like he is. “I’m just – I don’t like that you were sleeping with others so soon after we broke up the first time.”

“I should’ve been mourning?” I clarify, and he shrugs. “But I _was_ mourning. The kid was it. And you were doing the same, sleeping with guys to forget about me, I know you were.”

He kisses me quickly, nods like that’s enough. Okay. Let’s not get into that. I’m in his bed. We’re us now, we’re us, him and me.

“Okay,” I say as he pulls back. We tangle together possessively, my hand squeezing his bare hip under the covers. Okay. “You were upset about Chris,” I say, helping him along.

“Yeah. I spent most of that date thinking about you,” he says, tracing my jaw line with his thumb. “As sad as that is. And Dallon and I got caught in the rain, and I was pretty drunk, and...” He sighs like he’s unsure of what to say.

“And then you were flirting outside your room, holding hands, clothes soaked,” I supply, and he stares at me in surprise. I shrug. “I have spies. I hear things.”

“Clearly.”

“Clearly,” I agree. I pause for a moment. Conjure up the unpleasant mental image. “You went into the room.”

“Yeah.”

“But you didn’t fuck.”

“No.”

“But you almost did.”

“It was heading there but then I stopped us,” he says, and hot jealousy instantly burns in me. So much for that.

I think of Dallon wanting him, and at the time I was willing to be fine with it. Not now. I swallow down the foul bile and just nod.

He goes on with, “And I don’t know, Dallon and I were making out on the bed, but it just – I couldn’t get my mind off of you. I didn’t want him in that bed, I wanted you. Fuck…” His voice drops into a whisper as his lips ghost over mine again. “I wanted you.”

But I stall. “So you told him to go.”

“Said I was tired.”

“Because you wanted me.”

“Because I love you.”

I still haven’t gotten used to him saying that – I don’t know if he has either, but he keeps saying it as if to remind me, to reassure me. He loves me. It’s like a dream of some kind, and the punchline is his love for me, but it’s not a joke.

“That enough?” he asks.

I breathe in. Force the mental images of him and Dallon on a hotel bed to disappear. “Yeah.”

And we’ll never talk about London again, even if the thought of Dallon coveting Brendon angers me. It’s different with Dallon – his feelings were returned to an extent. But I got Brendon, I got him. I keep reminding myself of that.

Who knew how good it could be? I didn’t.

The urge to have Brendon again is strong and present, but instead we get out of bed after five more minutes of stray kisses, soft and slow. Because Brendon promised. Because the outside world will not let us be.

I get dressed, and half of the clothes I put on are his, half mine. I need to go to Machias soon.

I sit on the edge of his bed and watch him going through his drawer to find a shirt to wear. Admire his strong shoulders, his back, admire my nail marks here and there.

God, I love him.

I look away.

Machias can wait.

But the bubble of the past few days seems to be slowly bursting as he and I get ready to go. The snow outside his house is nearly untouched once more – we’ve only taken one trip to stock up on food and then we locked ourselves in again.

Brendon makes a comment on the weather as we walk to his car, no longer hidden by snow because we managed to get that much done, and I agree that it’s not as cold anymore, get on the passenger seat. He backs out of the driveway, head turned, and I put the radio on and press into my seat and look out of the window. He hums along to songs, and the drive passes in silence, but it’s a good silence. I listen to his voice and smile at the views passing by. It’s late in the day, we’re late, we know. But we’re going.

The further we get from his house, the more a sudden nervousness begins to engulf me. I pretend it’s not there.

His hand lands on my knee when we’re waiting for lights to change. I feel the touch everywhere, like I’m wrapped up in it. Then he lifts his hand back to the gear stick, and I wish he wouldn’t go.

Brendon parallel parks outside Jon’s house.

“You’re gonna hit that car,” I tell him when he reverses into the narrow space.

“I won’t, just –”

“You’re too close –”

“Shut up, I –”

“Would you listen?!”

“I’m good at this!” he snaps back, and then he manages to fit his car between the other two as if only to annoy me. And then he gives me a smug look, and I ignore it and get out of the car.

The lights are on in Jon’s house. I take in a deep breath looking at it.

Brendon’s rounded the car and his shoulder brushes against mine. “I’m hungry,” he says simply and heads up the pathway, but it’s a ‘come on, then’, and he looks at me to make sure I follow. And I do, hands stuck in my pockets. Just dinner with Cassie and Jon. Nothing I haven’t done before.

Jon opens the door with a big smile on his face. “Hey, get in here! It’s cold out!”

Brendon greets him like he normally would, with a brief hug, and I close the door and force a smile at Jon. It’s not Jon’s fault – he’s clearly trying to act as normal as he can.

Maybe this _is_ normal. The new normal.

Cassie is quick to come over and say hi to us, too. We never saw her at the airport when we returned from Europe. Brendon gives her a big hug, and then she gives me one too – albeit not as big – probably because it’d be more awkward if she didn’t give me a hug.

“Jon’s told me all about the tour,” she says, leading us into the kitchen. I realise then that we’re the only guests – Mike’s in New York, Bob’s flight back from Germany isn’t for another few days, Ian is in rehab in Las Vegas, and Dallon is – well, he’s in town, and I thought that he’d be invited, but I guess not. Which is just as well because Dallon is not on my list of people I’d love to see. But then – then it occurs to me that this might be a double date, a couples’ night in.

I lag behind to put some more distance between Brendon and me.

“Yeah, we had such a fantastic time, the crowds were amazing,” Brendon says.

“You guys want beers?” Jon asks as Cassie goes back to onion chopping.

“I’ll have one,” Brendon says, then looks at me. “You don’t. You’re driving us back.”

“I am?” I ask, put off by this because he didn’t tell me. But he just nods, accepting a beer from Jon. Jon looks at me questioningly, but I shake my head in the end, feeling pussy whipped. If I’m driving, I’m not drinking.

“So,” Jon says. He’s rolling on the balls of his feet. He looks between Brendon and me. “What you guys been up to?”

Brendon almost chokes on his beer and ends up clearing his throat. I look at the floor tiles, feeling horribly self-conscious.

It’s been, what? Four days?

Four days of –

“Jonathan Jacob Walker,” Cassie now huffs, still chopping onions. “What do you _think_ they’ve been up to?”

There is a moment of embarrassment that Jon and I share, at least, because Jon pales and looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. And it’s _true_ , of course it’s true, but it’s not a conversation topic for Jon and me.

Brendon is less fazed – he grins, even, looks momentarily smug. “Like you two are any better,” he says, and I relax. Cassie blushes somewhat.

That helps, Brendon bringing it down to their level. And maybe I’m arrogant with my love, but it feels like going down. Because I bet no one else would understand this connection, what it feels like, how intense it is. What it’s like to wake up next to him. I bet no one else –

Only I get it. Only he gets it. Only us and a thousand little love songs.

“So what’s for dinner?” Brendon asks, and Jon regains his composure.

We talk about the tour and the band over dinner as Cassie and Brendon drink too much wine. And it’s not like anything is different, really. The conversation is lively, the food is good, I’m amongst friends. And yet it’s fundamentally different – _I_ am fundamentally different. Brendon sits next to me, and my thoughts circle him even as the topic of conversation is something completely different. I admire the way he twirls pasta around his fork, the way his Adam’s apple moves when he drinks wine, and the way his fingers briefly touch his chin when he’s formulating a thought, and I admire the way he looks at me every now and then – or often, maybe, someone might say constantly, but no, often – because he manages to make my stomach drop every time, but that I hide.

“So Ryan,” Cassie says halfway through, and I focus on her. “Will you be moving to Chicago for good?”

I blink at her. Have no idea what to say. “Uh.”

Jon looks equally inquisitive. Brendon swoops in with, “We haven’t really talked about that yet.” And he shrugs it off like it’s no big deal, smiling firmly.

“Oh.” Cassie sounds surprised, staring at me. “Are you planning to stay in Maine?”

“No,” I say, frowning. “No, I don’t think so.” I feel like the centre of attention, even with just three people. I avoid my gaze and pierce a piece of chicken with my fork. “I might move back to New York.”

Cassie only nods, perhaps having realised that she’s made me uncomfortable. Brendon, however, is staring at me. “New York?” he asks. I nod, and a frown flickers on his face. He gives me a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean, sure. New York.”

We move onto another topic quickly, but when we’ve all finished eating, I still feel like I’ve spoken out of turn. I offer to take the dishes away. “You cooked, it’s the least I can do,” I tell Cassie who remains seated with a grateful smile – maybe impressed, even. What a changed man he is, this Ryan, now that he and Brendon –

I breathe easier once I’m in the kitchen. I leave the dishes by the sink, placing my hands on the counter and trying to calm down. I feel the foolish indulgence of the past few days washing away fast. Not so smart after all, are we?

Of course there’d be questions. We should have known that. It needs to be explained, it needs to be given a name. But we haven’t done that – I’ll fuck him in twenty different positions without asking what he sees for us in the future. Too greedy and caught up in the now.

“You alright?” Brendon’s voice comes from behind me just then, and I swirl around. He’s got his plate with him.

“Yeah, sure,” I nod as he sets it aside slowly, calculatedly. He’s followed me on purpose and he now stands too close to me. He studies me keenly. I crack. “No,” I admit, breathing out unsteadily. I look towards the doorway, hearing Jon and Cassie’s voices, making sure we’re alone. “I’m just, uh, just overwhelmed. I don’t know how to do this. I’m – _We’re_ unprepared for this, their questions and –”

“We can figure all that stuff out,” Brendon says instantly, a hand pressing against my side soothingly. “We just haven’t thought that far yet, okay? But we will.”

I nod. Okay. He’s right, of course. We just haven’t _naturally_ reached that point yet, and now it feels like others are pushing us. And five years, after nearly five long years, can’t we take it at our own pace? And what if we rush things, what if we mess it up, and –

“Would you relax?” he laughs, and I manage to chuckle. I’m being an idiot, I know. He smiles and says, “Come here.” He attempts to pull me closer, but my eyes immediately dart to the door again. This makes the smile on his face disappear, and his hand remains on my hip but he stops trying to pull me in.

“Sorry,” I say, feeling like a dick. “Sorry, I just - I just don’t know what we’re calling this, alright? I don’t know. What are we? I mean, are we a couple?”

He looks confused, but remains where he is. “I think we’re strong and we’re good. And we’re together. Of course we are. Aren’t we?”

“Of course,” I say, quick to agree with him. I can’t imagine ever introducing him as my boyfriend – a boyfriend, what is that? Something you have in high school. What we have runs so much deeper than that.

And now I step closer to him, capture his lips in a kiss. It’s so distracting, being near him, knowing that his lips are mine to kiss, yet not kissing him. He tastes like white wine, cool moisture on his lower lip, and he smiles into it. His hand comes up to press against my neck, and I firmly place one hand on the small of his back, the other brushing hairs at the nape of his neck. He opens up for me easily, deepening the kiss as he tilts his head, his tongue brushing mine. Electric nerves spark up in me. The kiss is slow and deep, and it’s good and strong like we are. It’s just a bit filthy, just a bit calm, just a bit reassuring.

“Oh,” Jon’s voice cuts in. We’re both quick to break the kiss, to step back, wipe our mouths as we turn to Jon, who’s walked in and looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. But I don’t step back that much, and I don’t feel embarrassed for too long. I include Jon’s kitchen on my list of places where I can kiss the man I love if I’m so inclined.

I’m learning to trust that it’s not folly this time, that I’m not getting carried away with it.

We stay for an hour longer before it seems acceptable to say goodnight. Jon doesn’t ask about how long I’ll be in town for, just says that he’ll see me later.

As he threatened, Brendon makes me drive. The sun has set, but the street lights keep the world illuminated. He curls up on the passenger seat, saying that he’s tired. I don’t know if I’ve ever paid as much attention to driving and to traffic as I do just then, working my way from Jon’s bigger house back to Brendon’s smaller one, my palms getting slightly sweaty on the wheel when I realise that Brendon’s fallen asleep. At least I’m a smooth driver, then.

It takes me roughly ten minutes to wake Brendon up when we’re back at his house. It seems cruel to stir him when he has his head pressed against the window, eyes firmly closed, lips pressed together, breathing in deep. And I’m fine sitting here, just watching him. Picturing us now engaging with the world outside his house, us in New York, at Spencer’s house, having dinner with my friends or his. Not being solitary figures anymore but halves of something.

Being halves even when we’re thousands of miles apart.

I need to go to Machias soon. I can’t keep putting it off.

New York’s a good step. Get my stuff back there. Sell that monstrosity of a house in Machias.

Okay, it’s not a monstrosity. That house was just neglected. It just needed some love. I wasn’t truly able to give it.

Brendon and I will make plans. Whatever we decide, I hope that we won’t be apart for too long. I don’t think I’d handle it all that well, missing him. I’d handle it, sure, but not _well_.

“Baby, we’re here,” I say at length, slowly brushing his cheek with my forefinger. He stirs almost instantly, blinking at me owlishly and then looking through the windscreen.

“Oh. Hey.” He sits up straight, smiling softly and sleepily, pleased that we’re here, pleased to see me. And then he says, “ _Hey_ ,” eyeing me, his smile widening, and then he has a fistful of my coat and is pulling me closer for a kiss. And we shouldn’t kiss in a car that’s in his driveway, not even late at night when it’s dark, because someone might walk by, someone might see.

Reason – what a useless thing for love.

We end up making out in the car, leaning towards each other to meet in the middle. And I just want to kiss him repeatedly because we have so much catching up to do. He soon says, “We should get inside,” and I fully agree because the car windows are getting fogged up and desire has started to burn in me.

I lock the car as he hurries to the front door, getting his keys out. I take one glance at the street, one car coming towards us some houses away, and no one else in sight. Good.

Even though there is nothing suspicious about two guys walking into a house together. Of course not.

“Hey, so I was thinking,” Brendon says as he finds the right key and pushes it into the lock, “that I should have a key cut for you, too. For the house. For convenience.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, and he gets the door open, looks over his shoulder at me with a grin.

We are whatever we are, no need to put labels on it.

But it’s irreversible. Now that we’ve become us, there is no way we can ever go back. And I don’t think either of us minds.

 

****

**Machias, 1979**

To put it mildly, he’s gorgeous. To torture myself some more, he’s tall and muscular, has deep blue eyes and a rugged manly appearance. His short hair is coal black and his chin and cheeks have heavy afternoon shadow. He’s standing in the doorway of this house.

The house is likewise gorgeous, but it’s a porcelain doll. Beautiful at first glance, in a light blue dress with white frills, but then you notice the dead glass eyes. The emptiness of the rooms. The silence of the ocean.

Ryan didn’t want me here. He didn’t want me to come. I insisted, rightly so.

Now, maybe foolishly.

I descend the stairs slowly, unsure. Ryan looks over his shoulder at me from where he is at the door, appearing anxious, but then he blinks the expression away to looking blank – but he fails just a little. I meet the gaze of the visitor, who looks affronted by the sight of me, and my jaw sets tight and my hands curl into fists, which is stupid, I know, and what if Ryan insisted that I didn’t come because –

That’s petty and weak, and I don’t want to be either. So I stop at the bottom and say, “Hello.”

The man nods. Lips pursed. Taking me in, measuring me up like I did to him.

“Clifton just came by to drop something off,” Ryan says.

And I nod, excessively so. “Okay.” And Ryan waits. And Clifton waits. And I wait. And, oh. _I’m_ the intruder. Oh, alright. I force myself not to frown. “I’ll just be in the living room, then?”

Ryan nods and looks grateful. Spiders that cannot be real appear in my belly and run along the walls, making me feel sick, but I force myself to give Ryan and Clifton privacy. I close the living room door behind myself, even, just to prove how mature I am about this, how I understand, and then I pace in the living room, twisting my hands, trying to eavesdrop. And in the hall Clifton says, “You’re selling the house?” and Ryan says, “Yeah,” and Ryan sounds awkward. And then there are words I can’t make out, and I wonder if Ryan’s lips are mine now, if that’s something I can reserve or if it’s assumed, if that’s within or beyond a boundary he’s comfortable with.

How elementary. How childish. Twenty-eight, and I act like I’m eighteen.

I know it’s paranoia. The word’s Greek in origin, literally means beyond mind, which I feel describes the sensation of it so accurately. The vicious scenarios of what might be going on in the hall are things that cannot be contained by my mind.

I sit down in the big armchair, my feet firmly on the ground, legs apart, and I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees as I chew on my fingernails. Wait. Sigh. Pull on my hair some as Ryan, my Ryan, and that man... Goddammit. Fuck. Shit.

And then the front door slams shut. I flinch. Sit up straight. Nothing else happens. I don’t even breathe. Then a car engine starts out front. A car turns around. Drives away.

And only then does Ryan push the living room door open, and it’s as if we’ve never seen each other before. Not like this. He stays there, staring at me with an expression that I have no idea how to read. It’s terrifying, that moment. When I just can’t read him at all.

“Well,” I say eventually, forcing a smile. “He’s a looker.”

Petty.

I don’t recognise myself. Don’t recognise the resentment in my voice.

He begins to say something, but I cut him off. “Yeah, I know. It’s fine. I’m fine. Of course it’s fine, we weren’t – You were free to. And look at him, fuck, I don’t blame you.”

“I didn’t want this,” he says quietly.

Ignore me, I’m just jealous, I want to say. Ignore me.

And I wish he’d walk out, roll his eyes at me, bang the door behind himself, tell me to come find him when I’ve stopped being absurd because he can very well have a conversation or ten with all the men he’s fucked, and it’d still be none of my business. But he doesn’t say that. He just looks guilty, and that makes it worse because it fills me with fear, and I try to fight off a headache, alongside greed and jealousy, and I ask, “Were you planning to see him?”

“No.”

“If you’d come alone.”

“No.” He pauses slightly. “I was hoping not to see him at all. Disappear, really. A dick move, but why pretend I’m nicer than that?”

I don’t want to be placated yet. “Did you kiss him?”

“What?”

“Just now.”

Now Ryan _does_ seem annoyed, and it’s comforting. “No.”

“No? Because I – I meant what I said at Jon’s that day, that we don’t need labels. But then, we haven’t talked boundaries, and maybe we should. But if you restrict something, it dies. If you decide that something has to be a certain thing, and then you don’t let it evolve because you’re so determined that –”

“What?” Ryan asks, looking confused as he walks in further. I stand up, shrug and sigh and hate myself. I don’t even know. But the spiders are in my stomach, and Clifton was beautiful, and Ryan might have had no plans of calling Clifton, but _Clifton_ showed up the second that he heard Ryan was back in town, and why wouldn’t he? And they have been in this house by themselves plenty, plenty of times. And what did they talk about, what did they do? Well, they fucked. I know that. And I don’t like it. It’s not the sexy kind of history where it might be a turn on to know what kind of stuff Ryan’s done with some hot guy, this kind is all bad. Because it went on for months, and Clifton looked hurt when he realised that Ryan hadn’t returned alone, or pissed off, maybe, I’m not sure.

“Okay, let’s try –” Ryan says, then fumbles. “Hey. Sorry about that just then. That was awkward as hell. I didn’t want you to see him. Or this house, for that matter. But I’m not... going to say that the time I spent here, and the people I spent it with, don’t mean anything. They mean _something_. And it was what I needed at the time, what helped me to get by. Alright? I’m not sorry for that. But I am sorry for that look on your face.”

I hang my head just then. Maybe he’s making himself impossible to read, but I’m being obvious.

“Listen,” he says, voice now soft. “I don’t need those things anymore because it’s different now. You’re here. Okay? Is that- Is that alright?”

And of course that’s alright, and I nod.

“Okay,” Ryan breathes, relieved, and hugs me. The darkness in me lingers, however, and so I pull him to me possessively. If only I could own him, but I can’t. That’s where trust comes in. I know this, we know this.

I still blow Ryan in the living room like I’ve got something to prove. Push him down to sit on the armchair, ask, “Did he ever do this to you here?” He shakes his head dizzily because I’ve kissed him breathless already. And I just think good, good, good, and then I get his cock out and I suck it like it’s all I want to do for the rest of my life – which it is, figuratively. And I put everything into it, suck him so hard, take him so deep, and he tastes so good, and I’m so fucking hard, and I want him to shoot his come down my throat and call me baby, which he soon does. His hands get tangled in my hair. Cursing. Sucking in his stomach. Biting on his bottom lip.

He comes fucking hard.

And it feels better after that. The fear and the darkness subside. I feel like myself again.

I stay between his parted legs, kneeling in front of him in the living room of his sad, beautiful house. I made him sad. He made me sad. Back in the day.

I nuzzle his right hip bone, kiss it gently. He can’t speak yet, he just breathes unevenly as he comes down, holding onto my hair.

“You know I wouldn’t kiss anyone except you,” he manages eventually. “You know that. You _know_.”

But I say nothing, even if he’s right.

“Brendon, for fuck’s –”

“Take me to bed,” is all I say. And he sighs, and he relaxes, and he does.

 

****

**Along Interstate 15, 1981**

I am going to live today.

The curtains of the motel room are a faded yellow, and sunlight penetrates them easily, makes them look transparent. We’ve slept in, we’re somewhere – there was a desert, a long stretch of road. Ryan drove until he couldn’t.

He lies next to me on the narrow bed, breathing evenly. I’ve hardly slept, but I haven’t dared to move. His breaths calm me. Remind me: I am going to live today.

He wakes up eventually. He turns around, sleep still imprinted on his features, and he says, “Hey,” fingers running through my hair, and I fake a smile and he knows it. His eyes look searching, and I look away.

The car is ours – or his, or mine. Who paid for it, I’m not sure of, but this is the first big drive we’ve taken in it. We’d test it, he said. A road trip. It’d be fun.

The scenery begins to flash by like it did yesterday.

After a long silence, Ryan says about a car crash, and I’m more alert. Ahead of us, two cars have hit each other – one on each side of the road and metal waste and car bits on the road. A woman is helping a man out of a trashed car. His arm seems to be bleeding. Two unharmed cars are there, too, having stopped already.

They motion us to keep driving, that they’ve got it covered, help is on the way.

So we keep driving.

What could he and I do to help, anyway? I know nothing about car crashes. He knows some, but he doesn’t let it show.

He puts the radio on, Reverie by Debussy, and the sound of it lulls me to sleep at last. That, and his hand on my knee. And I breathe in dry air, windows rolled two inches down to let a breeze in, but it’s windy outside and it’s picking up the sand.

And sand, you know, sand is just tiny, tiny rocks. And rocks outlive us, have already. Millions of years old. So it is immortality that gets in the car, and our car will one day stop working, and it will then rust and be demolished someday when he and I are dead already, but that’ll be alright. As long as it’s decades away, as long as we spend those decades together.

He wakes me up. He’s switched the engine off. I’ve slept through it, and it almost spirals me into a panic at first, because I know those cemetery gates suddenly ahead of us. They remind me of my grandmother. I was seven, and her face looked plastic and wrong, and then the ground swallowed her up, and every Christmas we came here to light candles for the dead, and then – fast-forward.

He must have driven down Main Street. I slept right through it.

Am glad I did.

Thankfully there are no red lights in any of the crossings. The town’s too small for that. Or was over ten years ago. Hopefully no one saw me.

Ryan’s chin is covered in thick stubble, and he rubs over the hairs now, eyes on the gates. He’s put his sunglasses on.

Late afternoon. Salt in the air.

“I won’t force you,” he says, but that’s just his polite way to say that he’s forcing me. We drove out here, him and me. Because it was time. Because he had to shake me out of a bad dream one too many times.

Guilt, that’s all.

Here’s looking at you, kid.

The cemetery stretches green to all directions with white, pale headstones in neat rows, and Ryan tells me the origin of the word cemetery, that it comes from the Greek for ‘to put to sleep’. We’re in a place where people have been put to sleep.

His sunglasses are a yellowy brown, so I can see his eyes through the lenses. He’s calm. That makes one of us.

I didn’t bring flowers. “Should I have brought flowers?” I ask, beginning to worry, if there was a protocol, if I missed it.

I’m fine back home, swimming in and out of different scenes, making a crowd laugh, having a beer for breakfast because we have nothing else. I’m smooth, I’m charming, I’m happy.

Not here.

The place where people have been put to sleep is outside the town itself, so it gives me breathing space. I focus on my mission, try to, don’t think of the last time I was in this town, the last time, the last time.

“You don’t need flowers,” he says, and we’ve reached the middle of the cemetery that’s surprisingly large for such a small town – large families, you see. He looks around. “So where to?”

“We don’t need to do a Good, The Bad and The Ugly.”

And then I head to our left, towards the oak tree that I still remember. Like a lighthouse, a marker. And I walk more slowly, but he says nothing of it. Just follows me. Doesn’t say anything.

We visited his dad the other day. I’ve seen him at his worst. I saw what it did to him.

My turn now.

What a road trip. Let’s be sure never to repeat it.

I find my grandmother: Marian. Dead 1958. And there are cousins and second cousins and great aunts and uncles, all buried close to one another. Marian had twelve children, that I know. No idea how many grandchildren, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was more than a hundred in the end.

A few tombstones down is a newer looking headstone. That has to be it.

I approach it, and it’s funny how his death now seems real. I’ve been away, I might as well pretend that he’s still alive. Not like we’d have any contact, anyway.

But my brother dies as I walk to his grave: Matthew Jeremiah Urie, 15th of October 1944 – 4th of August 1974. And then it’s real because the engraving says it is. And I realise how long it took for me to get here. How many _years_.

The day is too beautiful for someone to die.

I can’t comprehend it.

Matt’s been decomposing while I was busy pretending otherwise. That’s inexcusable.

I don’t know for how long I stare at the grave, but suddenly Ryan’s next to me again. His hand slides into mine habitually, and his touch is firm and warm. I doubt he’ll ever know the calming effect that the reassuring hold has on me.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Well, me and Matt never got along, anyway. Age gap. I was the annoying brat of a little brother. He picked on me. What does it matter? I didn’t keep in touch with him or anyone else at all, only found out about his death because Audrey had some contacts in town.

It doesn’t matter whether Matt lives or dies. On paper, it doesn’t.

But Ryan’s more intelligent than that, so he gives me his condolences, and I take them silently and gratefully and with a broken heart.

“I should’ve brought flowers,” I say, pulling my hand free and turning away. Wipe my cheeks and look at the hundreds of graves, little lives, little souls.

“Next time you will,” he lies. Yeah, next time.

The wind ruffles the brown locks of his hair. His mouth is a thin line, his suit is brown corduroy, the angles of his shoulders are sharp, and his profile is tall and lean, and his Adam’s apple protrudes clearly as he looks up momentarily, and I wonder what he sees in that sky above us.

I’m alright going with him. It feels like a farewell to loss, going with him.

Back to the car. No one has seen us. We have seen no one. Back to the passenger seat.  
He takes his sunglasses off, runs his long fingers through his hair, and I try to smile at him but can’t.

“I’m proud of you,” he says. “I know that wasn’t easy.”

“What, walking?”

Some poor attempt to keep him out. Hey, a boy can try.

And he chuckles, and I know, I can’t keep him out. He’s on the inside. A part of me. Let me write you a million love songs, because I will.

Hey, Matt. I know you can’t hear me, I know your bones are dust. But you taught me to whistle. That’s been handy, thank you. I don’t know if you ever gave much thought to your little brother who ran away – but he was diseased, so it was better that way. I wonder if you agreed. I wonder if you ever missed me.

But hey Matt, I came by today, and I’m alright. You cross my mind sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. I have a family these days, and he’s sitting next to me.

I’m alright now.

“You wanna sit here for a while?” Ryan offers, no rush. But I shake my head. Turn on the radio. Change stations. My song is on. I try to change channels, but he swats my hand away, says that he likes listening to me sing. I say it’s narcissistic, but he says it’s not if he subjects me to it.

He starts the engine. I lean over and kiss him.

I am going to live today.

 

****

**Nashville, 1982**

“We’ve got a visitor, you guys,” Clark announces, and the heads in the live room turn. The guys look surprised and pleased at the sight of me, but I give them only a quick glance before my eyes find Ryan’s. A small sun erupts in my chest and radiates warmth, and it manages to kill the sickening burn of the past few weeks but not all of it. It’s a sad kind of joy.

At that moment it’s hard not to cross the studio and bury myself in his arms, but I manage.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Pittsburgh?” Ryan asks, voice faint as he stares at me like an apparition. I was in Pittsburgh yesterday. Not anymore.

“The band’s in town for the day, so I thought I’d come say hi,” I explain like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it’s not a complete lie.

I know the session musicians, Patrick amongst them, all good guys, and so I shake hands with the lot. Ryan’s put his guitar away in the meanwhile, and I turn to him – finally, at last, and I haven’t seen him in two and a half months, Jesus fucking Christ, and he hasn’t been shaving, and his hair’s longer, and he’s become even more attractive somehow. But he’s not alright. There’s something broken in his eyes when he looks at me, but it’s overtaken by kindness and then that look that he only gives me, the warm one.

“Good to see you,” I say as one would to a bandmate. It’s an understatement, and my voice cracks, and god, I’m so exhausted but so happy to be here.

He says nothing. He just hugs me, a full body hug, firm and tight and warm, and I press into it, cling onto him. Press my nose against his neck and inhale, and god, that’s good, that’s the best scent in the world. Count to five. Then let go, reluctantly. 

“Let’s take a break,” Ryan says to the others, his eyes barely leaving mine.

“Yeah?” I ask, looking around quickly. “I’d love to hear what you’re working on.”

“No, you don’t,” Ryan says in a self-deprecating manner, and I let it slide instead of picking up a fight on the spot. But it is tempting, because he’s got the wrong attitude, he’s in that angry mindset, and I usually don’t let him get away with it. But then I’m just too tired. Kept nodding off on the plane. I’m too tired to do anything.

One of the guys passes me a beer, and I take it gratefully even as I feel my smile turning into a forced one when Luke, the keyboardist, starts chatting away. Luke’s not even six words in, however, when Ryan does a shoo motion with his hand, directed vaguely at the room as he then scuffles with the sleeve of his chestnut coloured dress shirt.

The movement shuts Luke up efficiently, and he’s left rubbing his ginger goatee in mild embarrassment. But Patrick says, “I could really do with some fresh air,” and the others seem to agree. They’re clearly used to Ryan sending them away on a whim. Clark’s the last one to leave, closing the door to the live room. He beckons the assistant sound engineer behind the glass to go with him, and the guy removes his headphones and follows. 

I turn to Ryan to say that they’re gone now, but I’m greeted by his lips instead. I spill the beer a little, but don’t give a fuck. The constant yearning wanes some, feels calmed down. His hand moves to the side of my neck, calloused fingertips. “What are you doing here?”

“Missed you,” I say honestly. “I was – It wasn’t good. I wasn’t good. I missed you.”

“When do you have to go?”

“Tonight. I caught a morning flight, need to be on a plane to New York in seven hours. I know it – Stupid, I know, Mike couldn’t believe it –”

“I’m glad. I’m really, really glad,” he says, and I pull him to me and hug him stubbornly. “You haven’t been sleeping,” he says accusingly as he holds me, and I only nod. Sleep eludes me. “You haven’t been eating either,” he then says, even more accusingly, and again I just nod. “You idiot.”

“I don’t have time.”

“It’s always the same with you,” he snaps, and I’m too tired to argue back. Normally I would, and we’d have one of our majestic fights and we’d both say that we’re just trying to help but the other one is too stupid to see that. But now, I’m just too tired. He seems to sense it. “Seventy-four days,” he whispers.

I break into a smile, a hand on his hip. “Has someone been counting?”

“I haven’t seen you in _seventy-four days_ ,” he repeats, and then he just shakes his head. We can do a week. That’s alright. We need that, sometimes, the space. Two weeks, okay. Three weeks is pushing it. A month we’ve done in the past, and we both thought that that was roughly the limit beyond which it just wouldn’t work. And now we’ve more than exceeded that. Like we didn’t know that it’d start eating away at us, and that it’d make my bad tour habits even worse, that it’d make Ryan give the guys he’s working with a very special kind of hell.

“How’s the tour been?” he asks, his nose now nudging mine. “How are the guys? What books have you been reading? What have you been thinking? How was Brazil? It’s different hearing it in person, not on the phone. God, you’re so beautiful. When did you get this beautiful?” His words all blur together, stream of consciousness rather than conversation. And he doesn’t even let me answer, just kisses me, and I need to be close, closer, and then he’s got me pressed against the wall and his lips are on my neck, and I’m drowning in it. The kisses are soft and lingering, like he needs to be sure of something.

“Ryan,” I say, trying to reconnect with reality. And he hums and kisses me and breathes me in. “Ryan. I’ve got a room in the hotel across the street.”

He pulls back and looks dumbfounded for a few seconds. Then he laughs. “God, I knew there was a reason I love you.”

And I feel at a loss because of his words, and so I just brush some of his hair behind his ear and love him in return.

After an exit that is as non-conspicuous as we can manage it, we get to the hotel room and lock the door. We draw the curtains and kick off our shoes. I slide his shirt off, kiss his shoulders. Reclaim territory. And then we’re naked on the bed, and I feel like I’m emerging from underwater. Like the world makes sense again, like I suddenly rediscover my appetite, like my body suddenly knows that it’s allowed to rest. I yawn against his cheek, and Ryan’s warm, strong limbs wrapping around me.

Skin to skin, even breaths. Fingers tracing warmth. Not going further than that. Not needing to.

And so we sleep for the few hours that we have. We sleep the afternoon away, him holding me, me holding him, and it gets me through the twenty days that we still had left.

It makes me a better man.

 

****

**Los Angeles, 1984**

Jon’s told me not to mention it, but it’s hard. There’s an empty space around the table where Ryan should be, and his absence is painfully obvious to me. His wry humour, his sharp intellect. It leaves the conversation lacking, gives more room for those less witty to speak up.

Brendon has been asking about my new book, although I doubt he’s truly interested. I tell him anyway, because I’m excited and I want to talk about it. And maybe normally Brendon _would_ be interested, but his smile is wearing thin tonight. Ryan isn’t here.

I know about the fight. I don’t know the specifics of it, of course, because I wasn’t a fly on the wall. I’ve made a decision not to crash at Ryan and Brendon’s anymore after that time they forgot I had stayed over and went straight onto loud morning sex. They didn’t even bother being embarrassed, Ryan just said that I could have taken the hint and fucking leave. But I had promised them pancakes.

They liked the pancakes.

That was a few years back.

The bar is busy as always, but Ryan’s not here, he’s not in town, he’s in Bismarck. Apparently. And I know a hell of a lot about that man going off to the wilderness by himself, and what it means, and what he does to himself out there. And Brendon’s here, looking like he’s in pain, and he’s drinking too much.

Jon said not to mention it. To Brendon.

So I mention it Spencer at the bar, because if someone knows, it must be Spencer. “Yeah, Ryan went up there last week.”

“When’s he coming back?”

Spencer chews on his bottom lip awkwardly. “Don’t think he said.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Spencer shakes his head. “Everyone needs to be alone sometimes.”

Ryan doesn’t. Not from Brendon.

“They had a fight,” I say matter-of-factly, trying to coax it out of Spencer. Spencer just nods. Everyone fights. Ryan and Brendon fight. Jon and Cassie fight. Vicky and Gabe, they especially fight, and their engagement has changed that none.

“It’s their business,” Spencer says firmly, like it’s normal for Ryan to just take off on his own. He doesn’t just do that.

“Brendon looks like he’s barely holding it together.”

“William,” Spencer says, gets his drink and wanders off.

He’s probably right. William in the hospital. Won’t see the end of summer, Ryan said, before telling me not to tell Brendon that under any circumstances. And I haven’t. Brendon needs to think that William can get better, but that disease is one-way. There is no cure.

Depressed and moody, I spend some time chatting up girls and dancing and drinking. I feel that sickening burn that I felt on the day that Dad moved out. He didn’t come back. He said that he would, but he didn’t.

I know what the others would say. You’re just being hysterical, Sisky. Don’t overreact, Sisky. It’s none of your business, Sisky.

But Ryan’s never pulled a stunt like this on Brendon before.

When I get back to the table, Brendon’s slowly inhaling a joint. He’s got one of his knees raised as he leans back into the couch, seemingly enjoying the dark corner where he’s settled. The others are chatting away, and he stares ahead of himself like he’s not even here. I go sit next to him, asking him to move to the middle so that I can squeeze myself between him and the armrest. “How’s it going?” I ask, and he nods distractedly and says nothing. I try to get a conversation going, but it’s in vain, and Jon is glaring at me, so I leave Brendon be and immerse myself in the topic of the hour.

People come by and say hi, a lot of hands being shaken, a lot of hugs. People I know, people I vaguely know. Friends and acquaintances. And it’s five in the morning, but some of us seem to be in no hurry home, Brendon amongst us.

But then the perpetual night turns into morning, and it’s a pleasant morning, the kind where I can see the sun again. Because I lift my eyes from the melting ice cubes in my drink when Ryan’s voice says, “Morning, everyone.”

And he’s here, and not in Bismarck, and he looks like he did last week, and he looks perfectly normal and just, well, usual. But Brendon’s gone stiff beside me, eyes on Ryan as the guys pat his back and welcome him like he’s never been gone. And on Brendon’s other side, Mike gets up, automatically giving up his seat, and Ryan rounds the table and sits by Brendon as automatically. And Brendon’s still looking stunned and wide-eyed.

Cassie is talking to Spencer now. I try to focus on their words, try to catch the thread of their conversation. Join everyone in pretending that we know nothing.

But instead my ears pick out Brendon’s voice: “When did you get back?”

“A few hours ago. You weren’t home.”

“No.”

Brendon sounds like he’s trying hard to sober up. He sounds apologetic. Ryan’s leaning into him. I think Ryan says, “I love you,” but I’m not sure, and they’re acting like there’s no one else in the room.

In any case, Brendon relaxes. They exchange hushed words. They both look like Regret itself dressed them this morning. Brendon nods too much and presses his fingers to Ryan’s cheek, his neck, his knee, and everyone ignores it because they know that it’s that cocoon that the two of them can create out of nowhere, where you’re ultimately left feeling like an outsider observing something you can’t quite understand. 

They stand up and don’t even bid goodbye. I don’t think they remember that we exist. Ryan keeps a hand on the small of Brendon’s back as they leave, which is fine and not suspicious because Brendon can’t walk quite straight so it only looks like friendly guidance. Brendon leans into Ryan, however. Ryan seems intent on taking them home.

It’s only after they’re out of sight that Jon glances at Spencer, and Spencer glances at me, and I wonder if we all wonder if that was a close call for those two, whatever it was.

But Ryan just takes a long time to apologise sometimes. Brendon too.

I doubt we’ll see those two for a while. They don’t really need others, I’ve come to find. The rest of us, we’re just scenery.

 

****

**Los Angeles, 2012**

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” he says, fidgeting in his suit. The cameras occasionally point towards us, and he ducks his head and pretends to be invisible. Like that works.

“It’ll be fine,” I murmur, leaning towards him to speak. We don’t want the entire ballroom to hear. “I’m gonna do the talking, remember?”

He knows this and takes in deep breaths. An actress or another is on stage, presenting an award to a man who plays a gay kid in a TV show I think I might’ve heard of. The atmosphere is cheerful and, well, gay, and my eyes dart to the GLAAD sign on the microphone centre stage. We’re sitting front row. I feel humbled to be front row.

Ryan mutters, “Why did they make us sit front row? What have we got to do with _any_ of these people?”

He sounds mildly paranoid, and I let him vent. He hates these things.

One of the techs now comes over to us, crouching to make sure he’s not caught on camera. He’s a kid, barely thirty, with hipster glasses and a beard. “Mr. Ross, Mr. Roscoe,” he says quietly. “You’re about to go on after this.”

“Okay,” I nod, unfazed. I’m ready. Ryan’s not. He thought walking along the red carpet was daunting enough.

“Could you hold hands?” the kid now asks, perfectly sincere. “It’d be great if you held hands.” He then presses his ear piece and frowns in concentration. “Okay, I’ll tell them.” He glances at us. “One minute.” He rather eloquently crouches away.

I look at Ryan over my glasses and try to smile calmly. He forces a fake smile back, making the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes more pronounced – the sign of a life spent smiling. His hair’s got a tinge of grey to it, though he absolutely denies it. But it looks good. He will always look good.

A new presenter now comes on stage, another kid, and he starts babbling about how ‘the next award is given to an openly gay member of the entertainment or media community for –’, and I recognise the kid as that newcomer singer who has been on MTV a lot. Ryan doesn’t recognise him at all, however, because he simply doesn’t care to know.

I look down at Ryan’s hand that is squeezing the armrest, unwilling to move. He notices my gaze and he mutters, “My hands are sweaty.”

I can’t help but be amused. “Baby, you’ve sung in front of thousands and you’ve accepted Grammies and given speeches to millions. All you gotta do is stand there.”

“Singing I can do, saying a quick thanks I can do. But this is not about the music. That’s what freaks me out, that –”

“– Brendon Roscoe and Ryan Ross!”

‘And go!’ the tech from earlier mouths, now behind the camera guy who has snuck up on us and is broadcasting our faces to thousands, no, millions, and this will end up on YouTube and those other internet websites – Ryan kept ranting about it earlier when we got in our suits back home. A litany of “When _I_ was young, we had no such ridiculous things, when _I_ was young –”

I stand up and smile winningly, adjusting my suit some. Ryan follows and looks pained and awkward. The room is full of applause.

I don’t reach for his hand.

I walk first, and he follows. It works well for all red carpet events, and so it’s a successful and well-established technique by now.

And then we take the steps up and are on stage, and from the corner of my eye I see that the entire theatre is giving us a standing ovation, Hollywood glamour and actresses and musicians and whoever they are in glittery dresses and tailored suits. For a second I feel speechless and overwhelmed, and then I just focus on the mission at hand.

The award is a small glass slab on a black pedestal. The presenter hands it over to me, smiling widely and looking awed, and I give the kid a one-armed hug like we’re friends when we’ve never met, but hey, I’m sure we’d like each other anyway. The man then shakes Ryan’s hand, which is a good call on his part. Ryan’s not the hugging strangers type.

I turn to the microphone. “Thank you.” I need to wait for the audience to quiet down, but they keep cheering. “Thank you,” I say again and smile somewhat embarrassedly. Eventually, I realise that I just need to start speaking or they’ll never stop. “This is without a doubt the most unique award Ryan or I have ever accepted.” The audience silences, they sit back down. I glance at the award. “It’s weird to see both of our names on this, and even more so because this one isn’t for music or a song we wrote. This one is about us.” My eyes find the carving of _Brendon Roscoe and Ryan Ross_ on the glass, and my eyes lock with Ryan’s. He’s looking at me like at that moment I’m the only person in the room. I feel breathless for a second.

Then I turn back to the crowd and concentrate.

“When I was growing up, we didn’t have things like GLAAD. No one talked about gay rights. No one talked about being gay. No one thought it worth celebrating. I ran away from home when I was fifteen after my family disowned me for being a homosexual.” I silence momentarily, and so does the entire room, a sudden gloom emerging. I’m not telling them anything that some journalist didn’t already dig up in the eighties, apart from the real reason I ran away which wasn’t unearthed until a few years back. “But that was the sixties. In Utah. Not the easiest place to be gay, trust me,” I say with a smirk, and I earn a chuckle from the audience, managing to lift everyone’s spirits again. “And I cannot begin to tell you how much the world has changed during my lifetime. Now gay couples can get married in certain places. Gay couples can adopt – again, in certain places. None of that used to exist. Just thirty, twenty years ago such things were unheard of. So this world bears little recognition to the one I knew when I was a young gay man. And that change is thanks to you. All the hard work people like you have done. Not me, not Ryan. Not us. Because I met the love of my life when I was twenty-three but I kept it hidden until I was nearly fifty.” I glance at Ryan, and he tries to smile back, but he looks like he’s finding it hard to swallow. I address the room again. “We don’t deserve this award. We kept our relationship a secret not just years, but decades. Our closest friends knew, but the world did not. And we couldn’t make it public. My label once told me that straight men would not want to listen to songs written by a gay man.” People in the audience scoff.

I pause, looking at the trophy again. “It’s because of people like you and the work that you do that enabled Ryan and me to stop hiding. It feels stupid to, uh, _reveal_ your relationship to the world when it’s past its twentieth anniversary. But we finally did. And we got hate mail. We got disowned by loyal fans. Anti-gay groups dug out their old LPs and smashed them. Just a hint: listening to music made by gays doesn’t make you gay. And it doesn’t make gay music. It’s just that: music. But we also got support, so much of it that we were stunned. We got letters from fans of all ages, people older than us, from teenagers. I personally will always remember a letter that I received from a fourteen-year-old boy who told me that because of where he lived, he could not be openly gay, but knowing that his favourite musician had survived that same situation gave him hope. He signed it with, ‘p.s. Your partner’s gorgeous. Well done.’” I grin at this, recalling showing Ryan the letter. The audience is laughing and smiling, and the look I give Ryan is almost too intimate to be given in front of everyone. “And we got mail from middle aged straight men who said that hey, that love song you wrote twenty years ago finally makes sense! And it’s still a damn good song and it doesn’t make a damn difference whether you wrote it about a guy or a girl.

Ryan and I have not been brave. We have not set a good example because we hid our love away. But your courage made us brave. Your work enabled us to be honest at last. And for my part, I hope that we now can set a good example and that we truly will be able to deserve this award one day. Because let me tell you, being a gay kid in Utah still cannot be easy. But we’re working on it. Thank you.”

I lift the award and smile, and again the applause rings loudly and again people are standing up, and I don’t quite know what to make of it.

The man who presented the award is clapping enthusiastically, beaming, and I turn to Ryan, and in his eyes I see approval and I feel relieved. But his eyes move to the microphone, and then he’s stepped up to it.

It’s amazing how the entire room shuts up instantly. _Instantly._ I just look at him in surprise.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Ryan says, which is true. He seems to ignore the cameras and speaks to the people instead. “This entire thing has made me uncomfortable from the start, and we agreed to let Brendon talk because I’m the socially awkward one and he’s the charming one.” Someone chuckles awkwardly, unsure whether or not he’s trying to be funny. He’s just being honest and blunt like he always is. “Before we came on, we were told to hold hands. Hold hands, I thought. How strange to not only receive permission but a demand. I’ve been,” Ryan starts, pausing and glancing at me, “wishing I could hold his hand since 1974.” I forget myself for a second, then, and just look at him. “When we met, I had no idea that we as a couple would one day be rewarded for helping to eliminate homophobia. At the time, we were struggling to just make it through the day. And that’s why I feel uncomfortable standing here. Not because of the flashing lights or the righteous, just cause or any of you people, but because when I found something that important to me, when I found him – I fought for decades trying to protect us from a world that didn’t understand. And now we’re here.” He laughs disbelievingly, his hand briefly touching his forehead. “Times change, like my partner said. This world has changed. And Brendon’s always been the brave one. But because he’s been by my side, I’ve stopped being scared.” He swallows hard and then looks up into the room. “We’ve got decades of hiding to make up for, so we’ll be busy doing what we can to help. And Brendon is worthy of the recognition he’s received tonight. I am not. But I’m also working on it.”

He steps back from the microphone, and now it’s his turn to look at me for approval. I break into a smile, still holding the award, and Ryan looks at ease at last. He grins at me as people cheer once more, the entire room standing up. He’s got the world eating out of the palm of his hand. He always has.

The moments still happen. The moments when it just hits me, like when he’s buttering a slice of toast, or we’ve fought and the bed is cold and empty, or he’s on tour and I find a shirt that still smells of him, or when he makes me laugh without even trying.

That moment when I’m his all over again.

I reach out my hand, and he takes it.


End file.
